he aiders van ilbert

The Raiders

T

IMES

were tough.

Kentrell Lewison had less than twenty bucks to his

name when he stepped off the bus in New Orleans. Much of
the city still lay in Katrina-wrought ruin, and the economy
overall just plain sucked. Jobs here, as in the rest of the
country, were hard to come by.

Kentrell was smiling.

He stowed his backpack in a locker, feeding enough

coins into the meter to cover 48 hours’ rental. He shouldn’t
need any more time than that. It was 11:15. The summer
night was hot and clear. Perfect business conditions. He left
the station and went straight to Bourbon Street.

He had just been a kid the first time he came to the

French Quarter, three years before the infamous hurricane
that would all but drown the city. Apparently an ocean
wasn’t enough to wash out the perpetual smell of upchuck
and pee. Or keep the party people away. Kentrell slipped his
way through the Friday-night crowd, making eye contact
with men and women alike. Maybe he’d get lucky. There
were a lot of females out and about. Women seemed to feel
safer playing in numbers. In places like this, groups of
girlfriends had taken him on eagerly, multiplying his
pleasure and, more importantly, his pay.

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But luck wasn’t with him tonight. Plenty of the ladies—

and even some men—looked into his eyes, intrigued, smiling,
but easing away before he could strike up a conversation. No
problem. He parked himself outside the main entrance of
Frenched, the city’s biggest fag bar. Within, music was
pumping so hard he could feel the beats shaking the wall at
his back. Men of all ages, sizes, creeds, and colors flowed
back and forth through the gaping double doorway in a
constant stream.

Kentrell presented an enticing product. A dark-skinned

African American, his slender, five-foot-ten body was
chiseled, the muscles honed through daily workouts. He was
twenty-four years old, but his cute, hairless face made him
look innocent and barely eighteen. Yet the outfit he wore—a
size XX jersey, baggy jeans sagging off his narrow waist,
scuffed black work boots—gave him the look of a
gangbanger. “Rough trade,” as the fags put it.

He had actually been a gangbanger once, back in his

mid-teens. That career had been violent but, thanks to his
mom, brief. He ran up a string of arrests for everything from
truancy to assault with a deadly weapon before Mater
decided she’d had enough and kicked him out. He’d thought
of his gang as his “real” family, but none of them would do
him the favor of taking in his homeless ass. With plenty of
rival thugs gunning for him, he left Detroit and hitched his
way to New Orleans, where he discovered being young and
cute could pay big-time.

He got into doing the ladies, of course. Unfortunately it

was mostly men who wanted his services. Fags disgusted
him, but they were bigger, bolder spenders than women and,

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if he closed his eyes, their mouths on his dick felt no
different than the females’. His terms with men were simple:
cash up front, you suck me, keep your hands off my ass. He
could live with that, and so, apparently, could the fags.

He unbuttoned his jersey, displaying the white

wifebeater that clung like paint to his pumped pecs and six-
pack. A grin tugged at his mouth, but he kept it off his face
because thug sold better in this venue, and everyone knows
thugs don’t smile. Not even five minutes passed before the
first prospects started circling.

He decided on a tall, skinny, middle-aged white man,

simply because he offered two hundred bucks, far more than
anyone else present was willing to shell out. That would be
enough cash to get him back to Nashville, where he currently
made his home, and keep him solvent for a few days. Which
was all he needed. Two years ago, he’d stumbled into
another profession that was just as lucrative as pimping
himself out to men, and far less disgusting. It was to further
that second profession that he had come back to New
Orleans.

The white man led him down the block and into an

alley. They found a shadowed doorway. Kentrell leaned back
against the door and held out his palm. The white man
handed over two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills and got to
his knees. Kentrell tugged down his drooping jeans until his
dick popped into view. The man actually licked his lips.
Kentrell grinned and shook his head.

Fags never ceased to amaze him.

This fag’s mouth was cold from too many daiquiris,

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which didn’t exactly help Kentrell’s reluctant cock come to
life. Tough shit. He only agreed that the punk could suck on
his stick, and he was now fulfilling his part of the contract.
There’d be no refund if he couldn’t get it up.

Kentrell closed his eyes and turned his thoughts to

more important things. He could start his real work when
this freaky shit was done. Much as he hated to do it (he was
exceedingly cheap), he’d have to spend money on a cab.

The tomb he planned to rob was outside the city.

K

ENTRELL

thought the Internet was the best thing since God

made women. Any knowledge, any bit of information he
needed, was just a few keystrokes away. Obituaries, for
example. He could pull them from anywhere in the country.
And they included such helpful data. What the decedent’s
profession had been. The charities the decedent supported.
Where the decedent would be buried. That kind of stuff told
him whether the poor dead sap was worth digging up.

Well-to-do folk buried their loved ones with all kinds of

bling. He was clever enough and had balls enough to make a
decent living plundering graves. Along with watches, rings,
and other expensive jewelry, Kentrell had recovered items
that simply astounded him. In one coffin he found gold coins
that turned out to be over a hundred years old, stuffed in the
corpse’s pockets. A collector paid him ten thousand dollars
for the lot. A paltry sum, perhaps, compared to what he
could have gotten if he’d been able to sell them legitimately

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on the open market, but it was still the most money he’d
ever gotten from any of his enterprises.

For those who get the underground treatment, Kentrell

preferred to go in within a day or two of the burial, while the
soil was still freshly turned. That way no one would be the
wiser, and he wouldn’t have to pick his way over a rotted
body. In New Orleans, disposal of the dead was a bit
different. Being somewhat below sea level, the city was just
begging to be flooded. Floods could bring coffins buried
underground bobbing to the surface like boats. To avoid that
ghoulish mess, and in keeping with practices their ancestors
brought from France and Spain, the good citizens of New
Orleans buried their dead above ground.

Kentrell loved the cemeteries here, which looked more

like small towns with their rows of tombs lining streets (and
the streets actually had names!), the dead resting
comfortably inside the walls of the imposing stone
structures. He had to break open the tombs, of course,
which made it rather hard to fully disguise the breach. But
that, together with the fact that the city’s hot climate caused
entombed bodies to bake away to bones in just about a year,
meant that he didn’t have to limit himself to the recently
deceased.

Benoit Bonner died a multimillionaire in 1950, made

rich by wineries that he owned in California and France.
He’d been born in Boston, where his former slave parents
had managed to establish a very successful tailoring shop.
He fell in love with New Orleans on a childhood visit with his
father, and he made his home there as an adult. His tomb
was in Lafitte Cemetery, on the western outskirts of the city.

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His love of jewelry was legendary, and it was common
knowledge that he’d been buried with enough bling to choke
a hog. Rumor had it, however, that his tomb had never been
so much as touched because of some curse laid on the place
by a voodoo queen in return for a hundred thousand bucks,
a deal made just before he expired at the ripe age of eighty-
nine. Rumor also had it that Bonner left the bulk of his
money in trust, to be dispersed by the venerable law firm of
Judd and Garland to any person who could recite verbatim
the elaborate set of codes he’d hidden in his will.

The second rumor implied that Bonner had descendants

to whom the codes would somehow be magically passed
down. According to every Web site that Kentrell found with
information about the man, Bonner never married or had
children, so he thought the stuff about curses and mystic
codes was just so much bullshit. The stuff about the bling,
however, he felt was quite real.

Kentrell met Rashawn Gaffney on that years-ago night

he first prowled the Big Easy. They were both turning
teenaged tricks on the same notorious corner. Rashawn had
a sharp, bony face, but he was tall and strapping, which got
him a fair amount of attention. He too had been a homeless
adolescent, one with a stubbornly violent temper that got
him into a good deal of trouble. Taking exception to his
father’s slapping him for back talk, he kicked the shit out of
the man and ran off when he realized his mother had called
the police.

He was as straight as Kentrell and absolutely hated

gays. He needed the money the gays paid for the privilege of
blowing him, however, so he tolerated their touch, if just

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barely. He got through the sex by slapping the johns around,
making it seem like it was all part of the game. In the early
days of his career, he would often wait until he was alone
with a trick, then beat the crap out of him and take his
wallet. He soon realized he had to cut that out. Gays weren’t
stupid. Word would get around, and the punks would avoid
him as if he were a two-headed Christian conservative.

Kentrell and Rashawn had stayed in touch over the

years, even after Kentrell made the move to Nashville.
Kentrell preferred to work alone when it came to grave
robbing, but he knew he would need help to crack open the
Bonner tomb. Once the white guy was done, Kentrell slipped
his wet, cold dick (it never got more than semi-erect, even
with the fag’s best efforts) back into his jeans and hurried
out to the street. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a
number as he walked.

After seven rings, the line picked up. “Yeah?”

“Ray. What’s up? It’s Trell.”

“Trell, man. You in town?”

“Yeah. I’m on Bourbon Street. Where you?”

“Headed that way. Wish I didn’t have to do it, but I gotta

pay the rent.”

“If you hate it so much, get your ass a job.”

“Fuck you. You show me somebody around here with a

job to offer, and I’ll take it. Till then, shut the fuck up.”

Kentrell grunted out a short, choppy laugh. “Maybe I got

a job to offer.”

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“Yeah? What?”

“Don’t go sounding all hopeful, fool. It’s just a one-night

thing.”

“Okay, so what is it?”

Kentrell told him.

The line went completely silent.

“Rashawn? You there?”

“Stay away from that Bonner grave, man. I heard stories

about that place. People go in there and never come out.”

“They just stories, man.”

“I’m telling you, Trell. Don’t go in there.”

“I’m telling you there’s gold and all kinds of shit in old

boy’s casket. Now, you gonna help me get it out and take
half for yourself, or you gonna sell dick to the punks all
night?”

There was another stretch of silence on the line, but

only half as long. “Meet you at Frenched in five,” said
Rashawn.

“Cool.”

T

HE

cab dropped them off a block from the cemetery’s main

entrance. They walked the remaining distance in silence. As
the towering metal gates were closed and locked, they hauled
themselves over the brick wall. The tombs spread before

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them in endless rolling waves, shining white monoliths in
the moonlight.

“Hope you know where we’re going,” Rashawn

whispered. He believed the dead listened in on the living,
especially when the living had the gall to walk among them
in the night.

Kentrell did know. He led the way straight down the

main street, which divided the cemetery into its north and
south sections.

The street was two miles long.

“Shit,” Rashawn huffed. “Are we there yet?”

“Shut the hell up.”

The night was warm and deep around them, with only

the distant rush of traffic and the scratching of crickets to
break the silence. A short time later, they arrived at the end,
where the main street met its final cross street in a T. On the
other side of the cross street, directly in front of them, was a
white granite mausoleum larger than the five-room shack
Rashawn called home. Above the entrance, BONNER was
etched in elaborate Roman script. Below that, in the same
script but slightly smaller, was a directive: Do Not Disturb
Us.

The door itself stood open.

“This is gonna be easier than I thought,” grinned

Kentrell as they stepped up to the entrance.

Rashawn hitched up his pants, which promptly slid

back down his hips. His black denim jeans were cut off

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below the knee, and he wore a yellow muscle shirt that
displayed the ropy sinew of his brown arms. He looked up
again at the words over the door. “Let’s just hurry up and do
this,” he whispered.

They walked in. It was obvious that the marble door had

been forced; Kentrell saw the large chinks along the edges
where someone had long ago broken the seal. It was just as
obvious that no one had bothered to restore the seal. Maybe
they were too late. Maybe what they were after was long
gone. Still, they had come this far. Might as well see for
themselves.

They entered a large antechamber. There was enough

moonlight here that they could see fairly well around them.
The antechamber was empty except for a single pedestal in
the center of the room that bore a pure white Carrara marble
bust of a hugely smiling, handsome black man. The blank
stone eyes somehow managed to sparkle with delight.
Kentrell recognized the countenance of Benoit Bonner.

Rashawn didn’t like the way the bust was looking at

him. “Shit,” he hissed.

“Stay there at the door, keep a lookout,” Kentrell said.

“I’ll call if I need ya.” He was regretful now for bringing
Rashawn along. He had thought he would need the brother’s
help breaking in, but that deed had already been done, and
the fool was starting to shake like Scooby-Doo.

Kentrell crossed the room to the door that led deeper

into the tomb. Above that door was another inscription: You
Were Warned.

He passed through without hesitation.

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He walked down a wide corridor, switching on the

flashlight he carried. The corridor opened into another
chamber. Above the opening to that chamber was yet
another inscription: What’s The Matter? Can’t You Read?

He grinned as he entered.

The walls of this chamber were lined with vaults, all

apparently unoccupied. There wasn’t a single name or date
on any of the smooth slate coverings. Kentrell indulged
himself in a moment of smugness. If old boy Benoit had left
any descendants, surely some of them would have joined
him here by now. There was no “us.” Just old boy himself.

Kentrell crossed to the door and the corridor that led to

the final chamber. And above that door, a final inscription:
I’d Turn Back If I Were You. Really.

Kentrell laughed. Old boy had one fucking sense of

humor.

He plunged on, down the corridor.

The final chamber was sealed with a finely polished

green limestone casing. There was no sign it had been
disturbed, which gave Kentrell hope. Maybe he’d get what he
came for, after all. From his belt he unclipped a nylon
pouch, which he’d retrieved from his backpack at the bus
station before hailing a cab. He bent down and stood the
flashlight on its end, the beam blazing up to illuminate the
immediate area. He unzipped the pouch and hauled out a
hammer and chisel. Wedging the chisel firmly against one
edge of the casing, he raised the hammer.

Don’t even THINK about it.

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Kentrell froze. The thought was in his head, but it was

not his voice. He looked back up the corridor. It was empty.
Yet the hair standing up on the back of his neck indicated
that he was not alone here.

“You just punking out, man,” he quietly chided himself.

He turned back to the casing.

Well. You’re determined; I’ll give you that. Tell me, is that

stubbornness, or are you simply dense?

Kentrell shook his head, as if that would dislodge the

unwelcome guest. “You imagining stuff, fool. That’s all.”

Delude yourself if you wish. But you can’t say that you

weren’t given fair warning. In case it isn’t glaringly obvious to
you by now, my resting place is indelibly cursed. Those who
violate it do so to their lifelong regret. If they live at all, that is.

“This is crazy. I ain’t tryin’ to hear this shit,” Kentrell

snapped at himself.

That much has been plain from the start. But if you are

bound to break through that seal, then by all means, go right
ahead.

Kentrell raised the hammer again.

And hesitated.

Having second thoughts?

“Would you shut the fuck up?”

Oh, never. I’m quite enjoying our little conversation.

Please go on with your breaking and entering. I’d love to have
you hang around for a while.

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“Shut up!”

“Kentrell?” Rashawn’s voice called shakily from the

darkness. “What the fuck you doing down there? You talking
to yourself?”

“Ray, get your punk ass back to the door and watch

out!” Kentrell shouted back.

My. What a lively little thing you are. And how convenient

that you brought a friend.

In a fit of rage, Kentrell slammed the hammer against

the chisel. The cement seal cracked all the way down to the
floor. Air hissed through like a sigh from within.

Ahhh. You have no idea how good that was for me.

Thank you.

“Fuck you.”

In due time.

The implication escaped Kentrell, so angry was he as he

pounded away, breaking the rest of the cement around the
casing.

Really, I do so appreciate you. Others have gotten this far

and, when I began speaking to them, they somehow lost their
nerve. The only good thing to come from those encounters, at
least as far as I’m concerned, is that they brought me
knowledge, kept me up to speed on current events. My
speaking drove them quite insane, I’m afraid, and they all ran
off to do who knows what with themselves. Pity. Many of
them were very pleasing to the eye. But you’re of a different
mettle, thankfully. You’re the first one stupid enough…. Oh. I

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beg forgiveness. That was ungracious of me. I meant to say
that you’re the first one with a big enough pair of nuts to
actually break the final seal.

The casing fell inward, slamming to the floor of the

chamber beyond with a loud crash, splitting into pieces and
sending up a cloud of dust. Kentrell dropped his tools and
lifted the edge of his wifebeater to cover his mouth and nose.
He picked up the flashlight and stepped through into Benoit
Bonner’s burial chamber.

He shone the beam around. Dust. Cobwebs. A stone

bier bearing two identical ornate mahogany caskets.

Two caskets?

The darkness swam before Kentrell. He staggered back,

leaning against the edge of the door.

It was some time before the dizziness passed.

Kentrell’s eyes opened. His arms pushed him upright,

away from the door. His hands began probing at his chest,
his belly. His lungs inhaled deeply.

What? What happened? The voice in his head was his

own.

“My God. This is marvelous….” The voice that issued

from his mouth was not.

Benoit Bonner, in the body of Kentrell Lewison, spun

around drunkenly, laughing with absolute delight. “Finally!
Finally!”

Wait—

“I’m done waiting.” Benoit/Kentrell rushed back along

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the corridor, reveling in the feel of strong young muscles
bunching and releasing, of a heart beating faster with each
step, of the anxious tingle spreading up from warm, snug,
and suddenly engorging genitalia. “Jesse! Jesse, are you
there?”

Ahead, a tall silhouette appeared in the doorway of the

moonlit antechamber. It opened its arms. “My love,” it said
breathlessly. “My sweet, I’m here.”

Kentrell’s body rushed into the waiting arms of

Rashawn’s body. They met with all the passion of lovers
separated for far too long a time. At once, Rashawn’s hands
were everywhere, sliding over Kentrell’s back, clutching at
his ass.

Shit! Shit! Get the fuck away from me, Rashawn! What

the fuck’s wrong with you?

“No, no,” said Benoit/Kentrell. He took Jesse/Rashawn

by the shoulders and pushed him firmly back. “Let me look
at you for a moment. Let me look into your eyes.”

The two deceased lovers stared at each other in awed

silence.

“I like your body, my sweet,” Jesse/Rashawn said at

length. “It’s nicely built. And your face is so pretty.”

“Your body isn’t bad either, baby,” said Benoit/Kentrell,

grinning lasciviously. “Although this is a bit of a reversal. I’m
used to being the tall one.”

“God, come here!” Jesse/Rashawn reached out,

grabbing Benoit/Kentrell around the waist and pulling him
in. “I’ve missed touching you. I’ve missed holding you….”

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Jesse/Rashawn lifted a hand and gently, lovingly caressed
the smooth face before him. “I can’t believe how beautiful
you are.” Jesse/Rashawn closed his eyes, leaning his face
down.

Fuck! Rashawn, don’t fucking kiss me—

It was Benoit/Kentrell who surged forward, pressing his

mouth to the parted lips of Jesse/Rashawn. Their tongues
met hungrily; their arms locked their bodies in a writhing
embrace. Thick hands grabbed at muscular asses, clutched
at bulging chests, caressed powerful thighs. Moans filled the
chamber, not the whining of lost souls but the urgent growls
of two men insane with their need for each other.
Jesse/Rashawn’s cock bulged beneath the loose black
denim, pressing against the equally straining hot mass of
Benoit/Kentrell’s dick.

This ain’t happening! This just ain’t happening!

Benoit/Kentrell’s

hands

grabbed

the

hem

of

Jesse/Rashawn’s shirt, yanking it up over his head and off
his body. He leaned in and kissed his way down
Jesse/Rashawn’s long, supple neck. He nipped playfully at
the big, flat brown nipples, bringing surprised, delighted
gasps from Jesse/Rashawn’s mouth.

“Remember how much you used to like it when I did

that?” Benoit/Kentrell said between bites. He slid his hands
down the other man’s slender torso, marveling at the warmth
of firm, living flesh. He undid the belt, shoving the black
denim shorts and the white cotton boxers beneath to the
dusty floor. He stared down at the long, dark cock that
speared out at him from its thick tangle of pubic hair.

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Kneeling, he kissed his way from the cute, tiny button of a
navel down to the bobbing appendage.

No way am I doing that….

Benoit/Kentrell

gently

kissed

the

tip

of

Jesse/Rashawn’s dick, ignoring the little voice that cursed
up a frantic storm in his head. He looked up into his lover’s
new face. “Not as big as the original, but I love it,” he said. “I
love you.” He peeked around Jesse/Rashawn’s side. “Hm.
Butt’s a little on the narrow side, but by God, it will do!” He
smacked the narrow rump for emphasis.

“Now let me see what you’ve got,” Jesse/Rashawn said

eagerly, stepping out of his jeans and boxers. He stripped off
the jersey and wifebeater the smaller man wore. The well-
turned chest and rippled belly were hairless, but there was a
nice patch of black fuzz peeking out over the elastic band of
the tighty whities that stuck up from the low-hanging jeans.
Jesse/Rashawn slid his hands down, peeling away the jeans
and shorts. He gasped when the rigid cock sprang out at
him. After drinking in the sight for a few breathless
moments, he took Benoit/Kentrell’s shoulders, slowly turned
him around, and gasped again.

“Well, damn,” Jesse/Rashawn said with a pout. “It

seems you got all the dick and the ass. That’s hardly fair.”

“Ooh, love, no worries,” Benoit/Kentrell cooed. He shook

his round apple of a butt. “Mi culo es su culo.”

Jesse/Rashawn growled and grabbed Benoit/Kentrell

from behind. “I love it when you talk dirty in a foreign
language.”

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Benoit/Kentrell felt the hot, satiny length of the cock

pressed against the trough of his butt. It sent tremors of
pleasure rippling along his nerves (and an appalled screech
tearing through his brain so virulently that his eyes
twitched). The sensations were steadily building within him,
and he loved every one of them—the enveloping warmth of
the naked body behind him, the caress of hot summer air on
his bare skin, the smell of cheap liquor on Jesse/Rashawn’s
breath. (He wondered, idly and fleetingly, just what the hell
kind of swill this Rashawn character had imbibed.) Sweet
Lord, it was just so damn wonderful to be alive again!

He turned suddenly and, locking his arms around his

lover’s new body, rushed them both headlong through the
mausoleum door. Jesse/Rashawn stumbled backward and,
naked except for their boots and sneakers, they fell in a
tangle of young, manly limbs on the soft, dry carpet of green
grass.

“Are you insane?” Jesse/Rashawn gasped. “We can’t be

out here like this. Someone may see us.”

“Let them,” Benoit/Kentrell barked. “I’ve got to have you

here, now. Better to do it on the lawn than scrape ourselves
raw on that concrete floor. Besides, this is a freer age than
we knew, when it would have been scandalous just to have
you openly buried beside me after you died. I say we make
the most of it!”

Oh shit.

They kissed, crushing their mouths together. Their lips

brushed and nuzzled, their teeth bit tantalizingly. Soon
Benoit/Kentrell’s fingers were probing at Rashawn’s

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backside with an urgency that Jesse remembered all too
well.

Jesse/Rashawn pulled the demanding hands away from

his rump. “Please, baby. You have such a pretty ass there.
Let me get some of that first.”

What?

Benoit/Kentrell smiled. “We have a bit of a problem.

There’s the matter of that little four-letter disease we’ve
heard about. This Kentrell fellow has never been tested for
it.”

“Neither has Rashawn,” said Jesse/Rashawn.

“Well, until we know their status, we can’t indulge

ourselves the way we did back in our day. At least not
without the proper precautions. And unfortunately, Kentrell
brought no condoms here.”

Now Jesse/Rashawn smiled, roguishly. “Ah, but

Rashawn was a bit more cautious in his dealings than his
friend was.” He reached down into his right sneaker and
produced four foil packs of rubbers.

Benoit/Kentrell gave a little squeak of delight deep in

his throat. “And they’re already lubricated. What a
marvelous age this is!”

Benoit turned Kentrell’s body over, presenting his

dimpled behind for raiding.

Jesus Christ! Don’t do this! Please!

Benoit/Kentrell looked over his shoulder and winked at

the man who was climbing anxiously over his body. Giggling

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at the panicked voice that screamed hysterically in his head,
he pushed the bubble butt into the air. “Be gentle. I haven’t
done this in sixty-seven years.”

M

ORE

than an hour later, they lay together on the grass in

front of the mausoleum. Sweaty. Out of breath. Deliciously
tired.

And utterly in love with each other.

“We should get moving,” Jesse/Rashawn said.

Benoit/Kentrell pulled Jesse/Rashawn’s long brown

arms tighter around him. “Mm. In a moment.”

“My sweet, this grass is making my ass itch something

fierce.”

“Oh, all right. Kentrell has a couple of hundred dollars

in his pocket. We’ll get ourselves a hotel room somewhere,
have a nice, long soak together in a tub, and we’ll snuggle up
in a proper bed. In the morning I’ll go to Judd and Garland,
give the codes, and take back my estate.” Benoit/Kentrell
rolled over and planted a long, luscious kiss on his lover.
Then he pulled back and smiled. “Amazing what a silly
rumor and greed can accomplish. As if I would actually stick
my precious jewelry in a musty old tomb.”

Jesse/Rashawn laughed and then stood up. He reached

down and pulled Benoit/Kentrell to his feet. “It took sixty
years, but it was worth the wait.”

“Indeed,” Benoit/Kentrell agreed. “We’ll have to go to

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Massachusetts, buy a nice house. We can get married there.
I can finally make an honest man of you.”

The two men stood facing each other. A tear swelled in

Jesse/Rashawn’s eye.

“Jesse? What’s wrong?”

“I’m just… happy. I thought I’d never get to touch you

again.”

“Oh, ye of little faith. Come. We have another long life

ahead of us.” Benoit/Kentrell turned toward the mausoleum.

Jesse/Rashawn

delivered

a

sharp

swat

across

Benoit/Kentrell’s bare butt. “And I’m looking forward to more
of you. Every day, every night. For years… decades to come.”

Benoit/Kentrell laughed, reached out to return the

favor… and froze. “Hear that?” he asked.

Jesse/Rashawn listened. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Neither do I. Kentrell seems to have gone mute in my

head.”

“Same here with Rashawn. I wonder what shut them

up.”

“I think the poor fellows are traumatized at having

breached each other’s posteriors.”

“Too bad for them. Who knows? In a year or two, they

may come to love it as much as we do.”

They returned to the mausoleum and dressed. Then

they stepped out and headed up the main street of the
cemetery, hand in hand, dead men walking into life.

et more stories from

The Dreamspinner Press 2010 Daily Dose

package of thirty stories is available at

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com.

About the Author

E

VAN

G

ILBERT

lives in Memphis, Tennessee, a Southern boy

through and through. He thinks writing is a pretty neat way
to make a living. When he’s not writing, he enjoys, in no
particular order, swimming, going to the movies, reading,
long walks in the country, working out, and spending time
with family and friends.

Copyright

The Raiders ©Copyright Evan Gilbert, 2010

Published by
Dreamspinner Press
4760 Preston Road
Suite 244-149
Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the
authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art by Paul Richmond http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com
Cover Design by Mara McKennen

This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is
illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon
conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No
part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher. To
request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite
244-149, Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

Released in the United States of America
June 2010

eBook Edition
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-498-5